Ever look up an old friend only to discover that s/he had undergone some hellish transformation? Grown bald or fat, turned screechy right-wing Bible-thumper, or (gasp) given up strong drink?
Then you’ll know how I felt on Friday when Big Bill McBeef and I rode Highway 115 south of Bibleburg.
Back in the day this was the official Saturday group ride down to Penrose and back (the Sunday ride headed east, usually on Highway 24 or 94). Sunday was for burning fat, but Saturday was for burning matches. It was always more race than ride. Sixty-five miles round trip, more or less, and a shitload of vertical gain, in the thousands of feet — Bibleburg sits at 6,035 feet above sea level, with Penrose at 5,338, but there’s a whole lot of up and down in between. An Avocet 50 altimeter could tell you the whole sordid story.
The party always started on the first climb, past Fort Carson’s main gate. A guy who got spit out there was in for a long, lonely day in the saddle. He might find some company further along the road — there was another selection hill just past Calle del Fuente that usually popped a few folks’ off the back — but it was a tough chase to get back on, the route from that point being mostly downhill to Penrose, barring a short, tough finishing climb just outside town.
We’d refuel at a convenience store, then tackle the return leg, which uglied up real fast with a painful climb. The group usually settled into paceline work thereafter, with the occasional wiseguy conducting a leg check on the rollers between the county line and Turkey Creek Ranch.
But the big dogs generally held their fire for the three short power climbs past north of Calle del Fuente. One attack, two attacks, three attacks, and then the survivors would line it out and sprint for the city-limit sign at the Academy Boulevard overpass.
I can’t remember the last time I did that ride — time apparently does heal all wounds — but I made the mistake of mentioning it around McBeef and he decided that we must have a spin down memory lane, as it were.
Holy Mother of God, what a fine idea that was.
The highway has not gotten any bigger, but the vehicles certainly have, and there are more of them, too, all of them piloted by the drunk and/or insane. Riding it felt and sounded like cycling through a tunnel alongside a freight train. And while the bulk of this ride features shoulders suitable for a brisk double paceline, there remain a few narrow bits involving bridges, debris and/or passing-lane climbs that are cause for some serious pucker factor — I nearly butt-sucked the cover right off my Flite saddle a couple of times.
Plus we rode like girls. Drunk girls. Drunk one-legged girls. Drunk one-legged girls towing anvils on skateboards with square wheels. McBeef claimed to be suffering from the wine flu, but kept shelling me anyway. I was weaker than 3.2 beer. We didn’t even attempt the full round-trip, turning around at the county line for what amounted to just short of 50 miles for me and more like 60 for McBeef, who lives out east where the convenience-store bandits roam free.
This was something of an eye-opener for me, as this is the route I intend to take sometime next month aboard a lightly loaded touring bike, which is a very different breed of dog indeed when compared to a 20-pound titanium road bike. Think overfed chocolate Lab with bum hips versus a greyhound.
